


After Life

by chains_archivist



Series: Life by Morgana Black / Jen [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Boys in Chains, Dark, Disturbing Content, F/M, Holiday Torture Challenge, Prison, Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 21:33:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3665901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chains_archivist/pseuds/chains_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Morgana Black / Jen</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Life

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Dusk, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Boys in Chains](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Boys_in_Chains), which opened in 2000 as a multifandom archive for both fiction and art, but then sadly went offline in 2005. To bring the archive back, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in December 2014. Open Doors [posted an announcement](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/1832) and e-mailed all creators about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please [contact the Open Doors committee](http://transformativeworks.org/contact/open%20doors).  
> \--  
> Warning: NC-17 for violence, sex and general disturbed, I mean disturbing content. This story's a little dark. Merry Christmas.
> 
> Summary: Mulder's captivity as told by his mistress. This is what comes of living in Denver and being snowed in by some twenty-four inches in October. My first entry in Shirley's Holiday Torture Challenge.
> 
> Disclaimer: All X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox Broadcasting Network. But the Mistress is mine.

It's Christmas morning and he looks like a sacrifice. I peek through the bars of his cell, sipping my coffee and just looking at him. He's lolled on his back, one knee up in the air, the other leg straight and flat on the cot. His arms are slightly out to his sides, palms up. I can see his cock nestled in the dark down of his pubic hair. I don't allow sheets or blankets. Or clothes. Five o'clock shadow sculpts his lower jaw and his slutty eyes are closed in sleep.

He told me once that before he came here he rarely slept. Now that's all he does, unless, of course, he's with me.

My eyes follow the graceful line of his throat. Even now, in the small hours of morning, my hands itch to wrap themselves around his pale neck, to close off the windpipe with my thumbs for just a few moments to watch his eyes. His expressive hazel eyes.

What should I do to Fox for Christmas? Something special, no doubt.

He bled a little too much last night. I had to give him a transfusion. I actually taped a cotton ball to the inside of his elbow to cover the needle mark. The irony makes me smile.

One of my favorite things about Fox is his ability to suffer. Not the type to grit through our play silently, although it's true enough that I would never allow it. Oh no, he gasps and groans, his face contorts, he screams and writhes, all at the right moments. Watching him takes my breath away.

He flinches in his sleep. His brows furrow into deep lines and then release. Beneath closed lids, his eyeballs skitter back and forth. Long even breaths change to hitching gasps, and paralyzed muscles harden with tension. Palms curl to fists. A quiet, lingering whine escapes his throat, a soft keen mourning I-know-not-what. I hold my breath as I, too, am paralyzed. Even in his sleep he devastates me; my groin fills with heat.

The nightmare retreats. His muscles relax now, one by one. He sighs and rolls over to his side. This angers me, I liked him supine. But I now have a lovely view of his back. Stripe after stripe of whittled flesh. It quivered and bled beneath my hands last night as he knelt before me, wrists and ankles shackled together in iron. But these cuts did not necessitate the transfusion.

On the first day, he told me he was an FBI agent. He blurted this information without first obtaining permission to speak. He's learning, albeit slowly. His first instinct is to dig in his heels and this is another of my favorite things about him. I may be small, but I can swing a baton as well as any man. Better than most. And I can do more with a baton that just swing it. And after we first played, as he lay stunned and bleeding, I knelt to explain that was *was* the operative word in his declaration, that once  
he *was* an FBI agent. But now he is mine.

I finish my coffee and ring for staff, detailing precise instructions. I go to shower, to prepare myself. I believe I'll have Fox for breakfast.

*****

It's Christmas morning and here is my present, all gift wrapped. He sits at the table, clad in iron. He's delicious in manacles. The chain between his wrists is several feet long to allow some movement. His iron collar has a three foot chain that attaches to the short one between his ankles, forcing him to slouch. Fox is my toy, but he's a dangerous toy. I must never let my guard slip. I recognize the hate that lurks in his eyes always.

He doesn't look up at my approach. I take my seat across from him. Staff pours me coffee. I allow him his impertinence for now. "Merry Christmas, Fox." I say.

His intent to ignore me today dissolves at my statement. His eyes fly to my face revealing unconcealable pain. Of course, he didn't know. There are no calendars in the basement. I summon my most enchanting smile and offer croissants. I can tell he wants to refuse, I see the struggle on his face, but it has been a long time since he's eaten good food and he takes one. I don't starve him, don't get me wrong. I just don't coddle him. A tear drops off the plane of his face as he pulls a bite from the pastry and brings it to his mouth. That beautiful mouth. I could fill books with words worshipping that mouth.

"Why are you crying, Fox?" I ask, all wide eyes and innocence.

Hazel eyes narrow. You bitch, they say to me. You fucking bitch.

"You may speak until I say otherwise."

"Fuck...You..." he overenunciates.

"Foreplay first." I return. Not breaking eye contact, I hold up my hand, palm extended open. I am handed a thin cigar. I bite off the end and place the stogie between my painted lips. A flame appears and I puff until the I acheive a glowing ember. He watches me and I fancy I can see his excellent  
brain processing my actions, predicting what comes next. I nod to staff.

Two of them come forward, bookending him between them. They each grasp a wrist and one hand is placed on the table before him, palm up. The other is twisted behind his back. I lean forward onto my elbows, the smoke from my cigar rolling into his face, which shines with nervous sweat. After dragging on the cigar once more to infuse the ember with heat, I pluck it from my lips between thumb and index finger. He shouts, "No!" as I arc it down slowly to rest on the tip of his right middle finger. His fuck finger, if you will. My staff are well trained; they hold tight as he bucks and yanks violently. The ember remains in place, burning deep into tissue and his pain sounds begin, not yet screams, but they're coming. His eyebrows slant down at the ends like a little boy's would, his jaw drops in horror and then the shriek comes, shrill and urgent. I'm not satisfied, I want more and he blasts another rich scream before I reward him by taking the cigar back.

He bled so much last night because of the rape. I've raped him repeatedly, every night since I've had him and twice on the weekends. He hates it and he hates me when I do it and it's during these moments that his eyes become black. Even when I'm not hurting him, even when he's hard and thrusting and convulsing in orgasm. I love them, his slutty black eyes.

He's winding down now, trying hard to still the cries that wrack his diaphragm. My staff fade into the background when I release them with a look. He snatches his hand back, cradles it against his chest in his left arm. He won't look at me now.

But I'm ready. Sliding off my chair, I move to hands and knees. I stalk him hungrily. He's hard when I reach him, not because he likes the pain. He hates it. But like Pavlov's dog, he's been *conditioned*. As I swallow his erection, he moans.

And I know his eyes blacken.  


**Author's Note:**

> "...but there also has to be someone who doesn't *see* him as black, who  
> sees him as grey, or dark blue, or only occasionally black and otherwise  
> white." -- Kal pondering characterization


End file.
